Mindless Chatter
by onemoreeternity
Summary: Lil Cal is so in his element at night that he practically comes alive. You know that better than anyone. The two of them have been joined at the hip for over thirty years, after all. You can't help but listen to what he has to say. Beta Guardian Bro timeline.


- Bro: Wake up and have a heart-to-heart with your best pal.

It's hard to wake up when you never fell asleep in the first place.

You should have known, really. You've been feeling off ever since Saturday. Easily annoyed. Oddly taciturn. Restless. Now, as the last dregs of Halloween night fade into the next day, you realize why.

You're lounging on the futon, flipping through channels even though it's almost three in the morning and there's nothing but infomercials playing. You simply find the blue-white light emanating from the television kind of pleasing.

"Why don't you play with me more often?"

You look down. Lil Cal is sitting right next to you, his glassy blue eyes tilted sidelong at your face.

You can't quite remember when you placed him there.

"Aren't you a little too old to be played with?" you ask him in return.

"NEVER! Hee hee hee!"

His shrill, childlike voice rasps against your ears. You roll your eyes and turn the channel. It's the Slap-Chop. That's funny; you could have sworn they pulled all of this douchebag's commercials off the air a long time ago.

"It would figure that you'd start running your mouth again on Halloween," you say after a few moments. "Can you get anymore fucking cliché? I thought I taught you better than that."

"But I _missed_ you."

Just listen to this guy. He copies your lazy drawl to the letter. Or maybe you've always been mimicking him. The two of you have been together so long that it's hard to recall who started what.

"Of course you did. You always say that." You shake your head and switch channels again. Two widely smiling ladies are displaying a fine set of bejeweled rings.

"You didn't miss me?" His voice becomes plaintive.

You glance down at him again.

"Cal, c'mon. You're my best friend," you tell him after a moment. You shoot him a tiny smirk. "What do you think?"

"Ha ha ha!"

"_Exactly_, dude."

Another channel change. This time it's a commercial on the wonders that await vacationers in Nevada.

"Do you know what _I_ think, *̷͟D*̛̀͘*̢̧́̀*̨͏͞͞҉?"

Your hand tightens on the remote ever-so-slightly. But it's all good. His last word came out as complete static. You hope it'll be a long time before it clears up again.

"Shoot, my main man."

"Hoo hoo hoo! I think you should have KILLED THAT MOTHERFUCKER. Hee hee hee!"

Both of your hands are starting to get twitchy. Hot, too, as if you had been clutching something too hard for too long. You set the remote down and drop your eyes to Cal once more. Maybe it's the flickering glare from the TV that makes it seem so, but now the entirety of his round face is turned your way.

"I should have, shouldn't I? Man, that guy was a grade-A jackass."

"A REAL JACKASS, ha ha ha!"

Scenes flick past your mind. A dark city street. A man stumbling out of a building, yelling drunkenly at you as you walk back to your car. Something searing and scalding rising in your chest and throttling you. There's a rip, a black spot in this reel of memories, and suddenly you're sitting in the driver's seat and everything's back to normal except that your fingers are slippery and shaking and it's sort of difficult to get a firm grip the steering wheel.

You turn your attention back to the television. The commercial break is over, and two deer are skipping through an idyllic meadow.

"He learned his lesson, I'm sure," you say quietly.

"NOT WELL ENOUGH."

"Maybe you're right, my man. He didn't bleed as much as I had hoped he would." Your throat feels scratchy and dry, now. You swallow.

"He didn't scream, either." Cal sounds disappointed. "That's my favorite part, too. The noises are so funny! Hee hee!"

"A real riot," you say equably. "Maybe next time, Cal."

"Make Dave scream next time!"

You pick up the remote again and switch to something else. Buff-headed Mr. Clean lending a hand to some hapless housewife.

"That's not a cool thing to say at all, dude," you tell him.

You hear a rapid clacking. Lil Cal's mouth yapping away out of sync with his words.

"He never listens!"

You shrug. "He's a teenage boy. Do they ever?"

"He thinks he's BETTER THAN YOU."

"He's not."

"SHOW HIM THAT HE ISN'T."

"Nah. Too lazy."

Out of the corner of your eye you see long, writhing shadows. Lil Cal must be flapping his noodly arms in acute distress. You decide not to dignify his tantrum with your eyes. Instead, you turn the channel. It lands on cheesy, soft-core porn, the type that would put sheltered old ladies to sleep.

"Why don't you ever DO AS I SAY, *̴̶D*̀*̨͟r҉*̢́?"

Your mouth twitches downward. There's that fucking word again, but you still can't hear it. You're still in the clear.

"I dunno, maybe it's because you keep suggesting that I kill perfectly alright people. That shit's kind of hard to pull off all the time without getting caught."

"But _you_ can do it! You're _so_ badass!"

"That's true, I guess."

You feel his small felt hands slap at your forearm in a playful sort of way. You still don't look at him, even though you're pretty sure watching grass grow is more exciting than the sex scene that's currently playing out on the screen.

"See? SEE? You AGREE with me! Let's paint the city with blood! Red is _such_ a pretty color. Hoo hoo hoo!"

"Can't argue with you there."

"Ha ha! It looks the best when it's on your sword."

"True that."

There's a pause. "Let's start with Dave. Please?"

You sigh again and give up on the Skinemax flick, but the Home Shopping Network is not that much better. Those sweaters are hideous and not even suitable for ironic wear.

"He's vulnerable now! YOU TOLD HIM NEVER TO BE VULNERABLE."

Another channel change, and this time it's a rerun of a baseball game. You think you'd rather go back to the TV porn than stick with this trash.

"Then we could SLAUGHTER ALL HIS FRIENDS."

You say nothing. That familiar searing sensation is beginning to build up in your chest again. It's becoming harder to breathe.

"You are the strongest, *̶Di*҉̶*̸͘k*̡. The best there is. EVERYONE NEEDS TO KNOW."

You start to laugh. Cal laughs with you.

The next channel is nothing but buzzing television fuzz.

"You're right, everyone should know about that," you say, and your voice is very soft. "I'd love nothing more than to school these motherfuckers on my greatness. I'd have so much fun doing that. It'd be the best time of my entire goddamned life."

"KILL THEM ALL."

"But what happens when everyone else is dead, Cal?" you ask. "What the fuck happens then?"

"YOU'LL BE ON TOP WHERE YOU BELONG."

Your voice is now the lowest of murmurs. "But then it won't be fun anymore, little guy. And all the blood will dry out eventually. I'll be all alone."

The blistering heat inside of you is gone, replaced by something very sharp and cold.

"Ha ha ha, but _I'll_ be with you!" Cal sounds wheedling. Gentle. Sensible, almost. "There's no need to worry about that."

You take a very deep breath. "Cal?"

"Yes?"

"Time for bed, buddy."

"Awww, _really_? That's not fair!"

"I don't wanna hear it." You pick him up by the back of his shirt and take him to his trunk.

"Good night," he whispers as you lower him inside.

"Night, Cal."

You shut the lid and double check that the padlock is secure.

When you return to your futon, you end up having to search around for the remote. How the hell does that thing always manage to get lost? Eventually, you find it stuck between the seams, but when you pull it out and point it at the screen, you notice that the television is already off.

Your sudden awareness of just how dark your living room has become—you hope with everything you have in you that it has not always been this dark—hits you square in the chest with a bolt of fear. The remote slips through your limp fingers and lands on the carpet with a muffled thud. A mocking, shrieking giggle swells up from Lil Cal's trunk.

"You shut the _fuck_ up!" you yell, whirling around to face it. You absolutely expect Cal to have broken free of his prison, but he's nowhere to be seen and the trunk is closed and locked just as you left it only moments ago. You slap a hand to your mouth, your heart thudding hard and quick.

You're too rattled to jump back into your futon and pretend to sleep. You only have enough sense to remove your hand from your mouth just as the living room door creaks open and the lights flicker on.

"What the fuck, Bro?" Dave's voice is an equal mix of annoyed and groggy as he slips into the living room, a fist rubbing sleepily at his eye. "Can't a dude catch some goddamned z's up in here? I had those z's in the bag, but then you had to go and start yelling and make me lose them all, you asshole." He squints up at you. "You okay?"

"Get'cha ass back to bed, Dave," you say quietly. You don't really want to look at him. Not right now, not so soon after that conversation with your best bud. "You have school in the morning."

"I'll stay up as long as I want to, fucker." Such a rebellious response is practically automatic for the shithead at this point. "In fact, I feel like watching some TV right now, if you don't mind." He makes for your futon, hands tucked in the pockets of his pajama pants.

You aim a hard stare at him. "Go to _sleep_, Dave."

He freezes mid-stride. You know that he knows that something's off with you. Your tone had been too angry, too not-you. "Are you alright?" he asks again.

"I'm fine."

He begins to slowly walk backwards, heading back to the door. His eyes are still on you, though, his concern plain as day. To you, at least. He probably thinks he's hiding it like a champ.

"You sure you're cool?"

"Cooler than an Antarctic blizzard in the middle of December, you feel me?"

He nods. "I feel you, I guess." He's not convinced. "'Night, Bro."

"Goodnight. And don't turn off the light."

His fingers pull away from the switch. "What? Now all of a sudden you piss your pants in the dark?"

"Hey, we all have our problems, kiddo."

There's a long moment of silence. Then he shrugs before scooting out the door and closing it behind him.

You sigh once he's gone and head back to your futon. No sleep comes to you for the rest of the night. You opt to sit in silence, staring blankly at a television screen that feels as if it's staring right back at you.

At least Lil Cal abhors the light. He doesn't speak to you again, either.


End file.
